STUDY TABLES

STUDY TABLES

 

The WWWWC was finally quiet. I was trying to finish up some administrative nonsense, so I appreciated the calm. The rest of the day had been…oh, who the hell cares? When one has displayed one’s ass to one’s boss, the rest of one’s day rather pales in comparison. All I wanted to do was go home and dose myself with Vitamin B, but my wish was for naught. I had study tables.

 

Study tables are the university’s way of staying ‘homework detention.’ Basically, coaches set up study tables so that their players live up to the student part of the student-athlete appellation. The players must come to a certain number of session per week, and tutors in various disciplines are often on hand to help the students out with their work. In addition to making sure that the athletes do some work, study tables are also really helpful for students who have missed class because of a game or meet; in those cases, study tables function as a mini-tutorial. Because I am the hockey team’s writing bitch, I am expected to be on-hand once a week to help the players out with any questions that they have about writing, grammar, or literature. Garrett helps out his teammates too, but I am the “authority.”

 

After I finished my patient, professional email to the student who wanted me to “fix the problems with the sentences and rewrite paragraphs 5-12” in his essay, I began to shut down my office for the day. I try to make sure the place is presentable…oh, who am I kidding? My office is usually a grand cacophony of papers and books and pens, but I am anal about shutting down my computer every night and locking up my flash drives. That night, I did my usual routine and gathered my bag. I made sure to have extra copies of my handouts for Kavalier and Clay and packed a dictionary and a handbook as well. Experience had taught me that I’d need all three before study tables were finished. For good measure, I threw a handful of pens in my bag too. I threw my wrap around my shoulders, turned off my light, and locked my door.

 

I gave the WWWWC a once over to make sure that the tables had been tidied and the chairs had been pushed in (my pet peeve) and then ambled over to the terrarium. I looked down fondly on its inhabitants: Floria, Orfeo, and Salome. The turtles were a gift to the Center from the assistant dean of Arts and Science, who is both an animal and opera lover. I love opera as well, so I bestowed names of characters from some wonderful, popular operas on my new little charges. The assistant dean loved the names. Aridadne thought I should have named them after the only important sister act in literature (the Brontes, naturally).

 

“Hello, lovelies,” I said. “Lettuce tasty today?”

 

The turtles looked at me and then contined their dinner. After making a note to buy them some treats before the weekend, I turned off the lights, closed and locked the door, and made my way to the hockey facility.

 

The night was crisp and starry. Sometimes Western Campus takes on a slightly ghostly quality at night, what with all the stone and woods and water. That night, though, its mood seemed mellow to me. The newness of the term was over; the frentic pace of its finish was not upon us yet. The moonlight glinted off the stone buildings, and students ambled along the paths ready to begin their evening with studying and end it with each other. All in all, the walk between the WWWWC and the hockey facility was by far the best part of my mess of a day.

 

Alas, my restorative walk was altogether too short. As I approached the building, I squared my shoulders and tossed my hair. False confidence, yes, but better than no condfidence at all. I entered the study room to a barrage of comments and questions.

 

“Meghan, would you please explain to me postmodern paradigms in The Crying of Lot 49?”

 

“Meghan, what’s the point of trying to be sophisticated and using semicolons if I can’t use them to join a bunch of sentences?

 

“Meghan, can you spell some stuff for me?”

 

“Meghan, what’s a nubian?”

 

“Meghan, you do know that Freddy’s pissed at you, right?”

 

Garrett threw the last question my way. I gave him a look and then proceeded to work my way through the other questions, the answers to which consisted of: “read your notes and handouts and then talk to me; semicolons do not give you free reign never to use a period; no; watch Chasing Amy on your next trip.”

 

After checking in with all of the players and getting them settled down to work, I went over to Garrett’s study area. He was sitting with a mound of work and some oranges next to him. He handed me some orange slices and, because he knew my spazziness so well, some napkins. I smiled in thanks and raised my eyebrow, indicating that he should talk.

 

“Freddy’s pissed,” Garrett said. “You should have told him.”

 

“Freddy’s being unreasonable, and you know it,” I replied. “There’s nothing to tell.”

 

“Come on. You totally held out on him. You know his idol, but you never let on.”

 

“Garrett, I BARELY KNEW his idol when I was your age. It was a long time ago.”

 

“I don’t know. It might have been a long time ago, but you two seemed pretty close.”

 

“I haven’t seen him in years. We’re not close.”

 

 

 

“I don’t know, Meghan,” Garrett said thoughtfully. “I think that you two know each other pretty well. He wasn’t at all suprised when your naked bum was on display for the whole WWWWC. Nobody who knows you was.”

 

The entire team stopped dead and looked at me. Before I could recover my senses and bark at them to get back to work, Duncan raised his hand.

 

“Meghan? Can we make pants optional in class just like in the Centre? Please?”

 

I had barely parted my lips in response when a voice piped up, “That sounds like fun, Meghan.”

 

I whipped around, upsetting Garrett’s table and dumping his books, homework, organges, and water to the ground. HE looked at me and burst out laughing. Between his guffaws, he choked out two words.

 

“Hello, Meghan.”

 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: oh, SHIT.